


The Yank

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Humor, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-04-29
Updated: 2001-04-29
Packaged: 2018-11-10 23:01:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11136396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: In which Bob Fraser refuses to give his son privacy.





	The Yank

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

The Yank

## The Yank

by otsoko

Author's Website: http://www.finnatics.com/otsoko.htm

Disclaimer: Alliance owns them all.

Author's Notes: Aukestrel and Kellie for the insta-beta, and catching some embarrassing mistakes, and making it tons better. Thanks tons, comrades!

Story Notes: Dedication: For everyone out there that knows that the REAL lyric from the chorus of Stan Rogers' 'Barrett's Privateers' (the one Fraser sings in MotB) is:   
"God damn them all! We were told we'd cruise the streets for American boys . . . "   
warning: small-n Canadian nationalism and Slashiness

* * *

None of this would have happened if Ray hadn't left his tee-shirt here, right by my cot. I idly picked it up as I headed for bed. I sat on the cot and looked at it, smiling at the Chicago Bulls logo. Very Ray. I suppose I ought not have done it, but I couldn't resist. I lifted it to my face and inhaled. 

It smelled of Ray. 

I lay back on the cot and closed my eyes, his tee-shirt in my left hand as my right . . . found something else with which to occupy it. As I lifted the tee-shirt to my nose again, it was enough. I lay there panting, catching my breath, when I sensed I wasn't alone. And it wasn't Dief. 

There are some moments when one's privacy is paramount. When one had every right to expect to be left alone, with one's thoughts and one's . . . well, actions. 

I suppose that it was the nightmare of all adolescent boys. Except that I had passed that stage long ago. But my father seemed to have little sense of propriety recently. If he ever had had any. 

"Evening, son." 

"Dad!" I protested, yanking the blanket over my bare and now slightly sticky torso. 

He grinned a sly grin. "My apologies, son. But if you don't want to be disturbed you really ought to put a sign on the door or something." 

"As if you'd pay any attention to that. . . " 

"There is that, son, there is that. . . " That damned wry smile again. 

"You're enjoying this!" My tone was accusatory. 

"Nonsense, son." But the small smile on his face clearly indicated that he was in fact enjoying embarrassing me. 

His eyes traveled over the cot and grew wide as he saw what I had been holding in my left hand while my right was . . . otherwise occupied. 

"Son!" 

I followed his gaze, and quickly tossed the incriminating evidence under the cot. I sat up and leaned against the wall. He looked at me half understanding, half accusingly. 

"Son. Another man is hard enough to take. But a Yank?" 

"Dad!" I pleaded. This was truly embarrassing. I could feel the redness spread from my forehead down to my entire torso. 

"Does this mean I should give up on thoughts of having grandchildren to bounce on my knee?" 

"You're dead, Dad." 

"So you keep telling me. With overmuch delight, I might add." He sighed deeply. "When they changed the regulations permitting . . ." He coughed. ". . . certain varieties of off-duty romantic entanglements, I never thought that it would apply to my own son." He shook his head. 

"There haven't been any . . . entanglements with him, Dad." 

"Well, there's that, I suppose." He looked at me carefully. "But you want there to be." 

I hesitated and then nodded. 

He let out a long sigh. "I do hate seeing you alone, son." 

"As do I, Dad." 

"But son, really . . . Couldn't you have at least found a Canadian? I mean son, a Yank, for heaven's sake!" 

"Would you prefer I take up with Buck Frobisher, Dad?" 

"Bite your tongue! Lord, son! Death is hard enough to take without you putting thoughts like that into my head." 

"Well, he is a Mountie, Dad. We have a lot in common. And he might be able to use his influence to help me return to a posting in Canada." 

"You're just saying that to upset me, son. That is simply cruel." 

He looked at me for a long moment before he sighed deeply, as if accepting the information and deciding to live with it . . . or continue dead with it. 

"So, it's the Yank, is it?" 

"If he'll have me." 

"It just bothers me that you would take up with someone who doesn't share . . . Damn, son, he's a Yank!" 

"He is a hockey fan, Dad." 

His eyebrows went up. "Curling?" 

I scrambled for words. "He did spend an evening watching curling with Constable Turnbull." That had almost led to a fight between the two, but I decided that some discretion was due me. 

He nodded. Curling was a major point in Ray's favour. "I just can't imagine you sitting around a campfire with someone who's never heard of Stan Rogers." 

"I can teach him Stan Rogers' songs, Dad." 

"Ah, but will he learn them, son?" 

I looked down. "I don't know, Dad." 

"You mean you don't know if he's interested in pursuing . . . " 

"No, Dad." 

He sighed. "He is, son. He is." 

My head snapped up. "Huh?" 

"What sort of way is that to speak? Use complete sentences, son!" 

"Sorry. What makes you think he'd be interested, Dad?" 

"The way the Yank looks at you, son. Dead give-away. Reminds me of the way old Joe McTavish used to look at his trapping partner, Geoff One-Feather. Like he couldn't wait to get him across a campfire again, with a tub of bear grease at the ready." 

"Dad!" My ears were burning. 

"Lord, son! What did you think happened out in the bush?" He looked at me carefully. "Well, I suppose it's better than having a lupine fetish." 

"Dad!" 

"Well, you did seem to be awfully close to that wolf sometimes, son." 

"Dad!" 

"How many times have I seen you run screaming from a woman into the arms, or paws of that wolf, son?" 

"I never ran screaming." 

"I'm dead son, not deaf. I could hear your internal scream." 

"My _internal_ scream?" 

"Yes, well . . . One's ears get quite sensitive after . . . " 

"Death, Dad?" 

"Yes, you needn't rub it in, son." 

"Sorry, Dad." But I was smiling. 

"We never really had the Talk, did we, son?" 

"No, Dad." 

"Well, son. It is important to take certain precautions . . . " 

I cut him off, "And we are not going to have the Talk now, Dad." 

"Well, thank goodness for that," he said, clearly relieved. 

"Yes, thank goodness." 

"Well, I suppose I have always thought that partnership was like a marriage." 

I looked at him with an eyebrow raised. "You and Buck Frobisher?" 

"Perish the thought, son!" He looked at me, scandalized. "Buck Frobisher! Lord, son! The man's intestinal problems would make . . . " He saw the twinkle in my eyes, "You're having a go at me!" He accused. "That's not showing the proper filial respect, son." 

I let a smile cross my face. "I'm going to sleep now, Dad." 

"Good night, son." I could feel his eyes on me as I lay with my back to him. He whispered, "Let him know, son." 

I sighed. "I don't know how, Dad. I don't know how." 

"Find a way, son. Find a way." 

* * *

End


End file.
